


They Are the Ones with Halos of Sun

by unknowableroom_archivist



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Drama, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-11-01
Updated: 2005-11-28
Packaged: 2019-01-19 03:33:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 7,847
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12402216
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/unknowableroom_archivist/pseuds/unknowableroom_archivist
Summary: Of Lily and James, of sacrifice and narcissism, of entangling romances, of a werewolf's sex life, of two-way mirrors and ultimatums and ends, but above all: of beginnings. (Sixth year onwards, hopefully not cliche, novel-length)





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Note from ChristyCorr, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [Unknowable Room](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Unknowable_Room), a Harry Potter archive active from 2005-2016. To preserve the archive, I began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project after May 2017. I e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [Unknowable Room collection profile](http://www.archiveofourown.org/collections/unknowableroom).

Prologue

You know them. They are the ones who run outside in a lightning storm, and you do not know, then, if their hearts beat in bravery or bravado. They scream at the storm, but it does not cease. They harness the storm, sometimes–and that is more dangerous yet. They are the ones with halos of sun around their disheveled heads when the rain stops; they are the ones with fierce eyes, because they did not want it to stop. Not really.

You know them. They dance in your shadows. They are your heroes. You do not always understand them, nor they you. But on a more basic level, _you know them_. They will never die. Not really.


	2. Wake

Part One  
Wake

1.1

They are at a funeral. The church is stuffy and damp, smelling faintly of mildew and old carpets; James has to resist the urge to sneeze. At the dais up front, an elderly priest speaks in a voice so low and monotonous that James is not entirely sure he is still awake.

He doesn't feel right, in this claustrophobic church, at this Muggle funeral, in his stiff suit with the shoulders too wide. He's never been to a funeral before, but he didn't imagine it would be like this. Next to him, Lily's eyes are glazed over, and her dress sticks to her back with sweat. Feeling his eyes on her, she gives him a little smile, then rolls her eyes in the direction of the priest.

The corner of his mouth twitches and he looks away, forcing his attention back to the ceremony.

"–a treasured...member of...our community...and," the priest drones, "a caring husband...loving father...and generous...friend." Lily stifles a yawn into her handkerchief. "His presence...of mind and...sense of...humor will be...missed, but he...is surely in a...better place, now...His daughter...will now say...a few words."

In the church settles a heavy, leaden silence. A silence as can only exist at a small, hot funeral with not many guests and bad acoustics. After a moment, James treads gently on Lily's foot.

Lily starts–a movement so imperceptible as to be utterly invisible to everyone except James, who sees the vein jump just above her clavicle. Regardless, she regains her composure with remarkable speed and edges out of the pew past James, down the aisle, and to the dais.

Clearing her throat, Lily looks out at the other attendees. The crowd is pathetically thin, and she gets the impression that most of the guests–her father's landlord, for instance, and his barber–came for free refreshments and a few easy karma points. Everyone, including the landlord and the barber, look very bored, and very tired, and very uncomfortable. A bead of sweat slithers down her hairline and behind her ear.

"Only the phoenix rises and does not descend," Lily says. "And everything changes. And nothing is truly lost."

She steps down from the dais and returns to her pew. A few eyes boggle at her, but she does not turn her head. It is done. It is as it must be.

1.2

Outside, after the reception, Lily and James walk side by side. James's jacket is slung over his arm, and his hands are in his pockets.

"Where's Petunia?" he asks, staring at the ground.

"She had a date."

James's eyes flick up briefly to Lily's: a look of surprise, of disgust, of disbelief.

"Oh, don't be so scandalized," Lily says, trying to sound like it doesn't matter. "He was a lousy father to both of us–I think she just–she was always very ashamed of him. She was ashamed of him leaving us, it skewed that model of what family ought to be, for her. And she was embarrassed of his work, and of the kind of man he was–or, not embarrassed even, because it was deeper and crueler than that." Lily takes a deep breath, lost in memories that make her brow crease. "But I guess her boyfriend had bought really expensive tickets or something, and she couldn't get out of it, so I said it was okay," she finishes lamely, her voice false and brisk and guarded.

James makes a noncommittal noise. "She should have come," he says, and he's not sure–but he thinks Lily gives an infinitesimal nod.

A few minutes pass as they walk in silence, their minds marooned on thoughts of fathers, and the past, and duty, and love.

1.3

"At the ceremony–that was nice," James says after a time, bringing them both back to safer shores.

She raises an eyebrow. "Come on, James. It was depressing–those people there, they weren't his friends. I don't think he had any friends. And the priest, and...well, it's over now. It wasn't _nice_ , though."

"I meant–what you said about your dad. It was appropriate, and right." He rubs the back of his neck, and his sweaty hair sticks up.

"He was a bastard, but...he needn't be remembered that way. At least–I wanted to say something true, and–well, for better or for worse: things do change. The way of the world, and all that."

James nods, looking at the ground. "When was the last time you spoke to him?"

"Oh..." she looks up at the sky, eyes intent. "Six years ago, I guess. Right after I got my Hogwarts letter, actually–when I found out I was a witch. He just–oh, it's stupid. I'm just rambling here."

"No, tell me."

"Well, he called up–I guess Mum had told him about Hogwarts–and he yelled at me about _no daughter of mine_ and _over my dead body_ and all that crap. Said I was worthless, ugly, stupid..." she ticks the characteristics off on her fingers, and lets out a derisive laugh. "The usual." They walk in silence for a couple minutes, then Lily speaks again as though there had been no pause at all. "He called a few times after that, but Mum would tell him I was out. I guess–I guess I mourned him then. He died six years ago."

She stops walking, and reaches out a hand to halt James, turning him to face her. He reaches out a hand and brushes off a few strands of hair that wind and sweat have pinned to her lip, her cheekbone. His hand pauses at her throat, and he looks at her very hard with his dark eyes. Then, saying everything in two words, he mutters, "I know," and wraps her in a hug.

This, then, is the wake. It is a long time before they separate, and when they do, Lily's tears have dried and only their paths remain. Or maybe that is a trick of the light–maybe she did not cry.

But indeed: everything changes, and _nothing_ is truly lost.

1.4

_"You are mortal: it is the mortal way. You attend the funeral, you bid the dead farewell. You grieve. Then you continue with your life. And at times the fact of her absence will hit you like a blow to the chest, and you will weep. But this will happen less and less as time goes on. She is dead. You are alive. So live."_

_– Dream to his son Orpheus in_ The Sandman: Brief Lives

[ **Author’s note** : Neil Gaiman’s _The Sandman_ is also the source of the line, “Only the phoenix rises and does not descend. And everything changes. And nothing is truly lost.”�]


	3. Some Things Change, and Some Do Not

Part Two  
Some Things Change, and Some Do Not

2.1

Yellow light knifes across the floor: three straight bands of sun on wood, and the fourth, on skin. She looks violent in her sleep: body sprawled on the floor, limbs tangled, hair like a pool of blood around her still face. A heavy, yellow-paged, leather-bound tome lies open by her limp left hand. There is ink on the floor, staining one absurdly picturesque curl of her hair, and there is a quill.

Step back. Lily is in the middle of a small room, like the eye of a hurricane-for strewn all around her are old books and black robes, gloves, stockings, shampoo, bits of parchment, and apple cores. A trunk is flung open, yawning in its emptiness, and in the emptiness of the very early morning.

The fourth band of sunlight crawls across her chest, her neck, her jaw...and then suddenly it is on her eyes, and she sneezes, and she is awake. It takes her a minute to take stock of her surroundings, but then she realizes that she must have fallen asleep last night as she was packing.

Packing for Hogwarts, because she is to leave today. And goddammit, nothing is packed, and she hasn't even showered, and it's already 9:45–she has a half an hour.

Then suddenly she is no longer the eye but the hurricane itself, dashing about the room to fling clothing and schoolwork and other, odder, paraphernalia into her trunk. With no time to shower, she pulls on a shirt and tries to smooth a skirt over her thighs, to no avail.

"Lily?" comes a voice from the kitchen. "Are you ready to go?"

"Yep, yes, one second Mum. I just, damn your genes, it's like every individual hair is having a temper tantrum on my head!"

"Lily, I'm sure you look lovely," her mother says in a voice that has heard this complaint before, and made the same reassurance. A quiet kindness is apparent in the smile lines around her eyes.

"You have to say that, you're my mother," comes the inevitable response, but Lily sounds appeased.

"Darling, I don't have to say it, I'm sure anyone would agree. I'm sure James would agree." A smile tugs at her lips as she anticipates the–

"Mum, how many times do I have to tell you, James and I are not involved! Do you think I'd invite a boy I fancied to Dad's funeral?"

Lily's mother concedes that, yes, a funeral does not exactly smack of romantic atmosphere and stolen kisses.

"Exactly," Lily says with a firm nod, emerging finally from the bedroom with her trunk in tow. "Besides," she adds, almost as an afterthought, "James would probably tell me I look like shit."

2.2

Lily and her mother live in a poorer part of London, in two tiny rooms on the fifth floor of a damp-smelling walkup. The bedroom has a wide window that affords them a lovely view of a brick wall, with a very thin band of sky visible along the top. The kitchen has a small, lumpy sofa in it, leading Lily's mother to refer to it magnanimously as a "kitchen-cum-parlor." Their flat is furnished with the kind of comfortable squalor that only comes from two disorganized women living peaceably in too-small living quarters–peaceably, because once Petunia left to live at University, Lily and her mother suddenly realized that shouting matches and slammed doors were not requisite elements of close-quartered family life.

As Lily steps out of the bedroom, her mother holds out a piece of toast like a peace offering. Lily promptly takes the toast firmly in her teeth and holds it there as she uses both hands to hoist her trunk through the doorway. Together the two of them manage–somewhat miraculously–to manoeuver the trunk down four flights of stairs and into their rather unsturdy-looking blue two-door, Lily with her toast clamped importantly in her mouth; and then doors are pulled shut and a cassette is pushed into the tape player and Lily takes a triumphant bite of her now rather peaky-looking toast and they are driving off through the winding London streets towards King's Cross station.

Lily chews meditatively on her toast and her mother hums tunelessly along with Jethro Tull, which is piping from the car's tinny speakers. "Mum," Lily asks suddenly, "what did you think when I got the letter? From Hogwarts, I mean. When I was eleven."

Her mother purses her lips for a moment, thinking, trying to be tactful. "Honestly, honey? I thought it was some sort of prank, a practical joke from one of your school friends, maybe." She's silent for a minute, then: "But Lily, I guess that just goes to show that you have to take things at face value, no matter what life throws at you. Because, well–look at you now, Lily! Top of your class, and learning magic, for heaven's sake. I'm really proud of you, you know."

"I know," Lily says quietly. "I was just thinking about–about life after Hogwarts. Magic is such a part of my life now, I'm starting to think about careers, and...Mum, I want to continue my life in the wizarding world, after I graduate. I'm just–it's just, I don't want to leave you behind, in the Muggle world. I want you always to be a part of my life–the wizarding world, though, it's so different. I don't know how you could really inhabit it, except as a squib. But I–I can't give up magic, Mum," Lily finished, a plea in her voice. "I don't know what to do."

"But honey, you'll still have University after Hogwarts–Petunia loves it there, you know. And, well, I think you should hold off on choosing a career until you've been at a Muggle University too; maybe you'll find that you just fit in better in our world, and–"

"It's not our world anymore, Mum–don't you hear what I'm saying? It's your world, but mine is a place with wands and Floo powder and hexes and Quiddich. Mum, you have to understand: I can't just turn my back on all this. I–I'm not going to University, I thought you knew that."

"We're here," Lily's mother says stonily. "King's Cross."

"Mum, I–"

"I can't talk about this right now."

"I...okay," Lily says quietly, pulling herself out of the car and trying to smooth her hair down, as if that would smooth out her life. She drags her trunk onto the sidewalk next to her and leans in to look at her mother. "I love you, Mum," she says sadly, like a concession.

"I love you, too."

Then the door is shut and the car pulls away from the curb, leaving Lily with a thousand words of reconciliation dying on her tongue. She is alone and confused–and tired, suddenly, now that the adrenaline of anger is fast draining from her.

Heaving a deep sigh that gives her not oxygen but a lungful of exhaust fuel, Lily lugs her trunk laboriously into the station, to the Hogwarts Express.

On the train she finds herself an empty compartment and sinks into one of the seats; finally there is nothing to stop her from thinking about the argument with her mother–not just about the fact that they had a row, but about the real gravity of the situation, the rift between her world and that of her mother. She rubs her eyes with the heels of her hands, and when she looks up James is leaning lazily against the doorframe, a smile on his face like he knows something she doesn't.

"Lily, you look like shit," he says.

She looks at him and then she laughs–not an obligatory chuckle, not a quick exhalation–no, she throws her head back and laughs from her diaphragm, all the tension and coiled nerves from the hour before finding release.

James looks at her with some puzzlement.

"I knew you would say that," Lily says finally. "And, thank you."

"You're welcome?"

"...Yeah."

"Care to elaborate?"

"Not really."

"Okay," he says, and then he finally enters the compartment fully; long legs and skinny chest align themselves with a sort of awkward grace as he seats himself next to her. "The guys were asking after you," he says. "Care to join us for a fine fÃªte of chocolate frogs and pumpkin juice in the luxurious compartment three-oh-nine?"

"I want to find Em first. Have you seen her around?"

"My dear, the lovely Lady Emmeline has already been seduced by the subtle finery of three-oh-nine and the stunning charisma of those young gentlemen within."

Lily rolls her eyes. "Gentlemen my ass," she mutters; but she does stand up and begin to follow James out into the corridor. "Wait–" she says, just before James opens the door. "Do I really look like shit?" She squints concernedly into the darkened window, but all she can discern is a vaguely frizzy silhouette.

James stares at her hard for a moment, as if he's memorizing the angle of every individual hair. A strange expression is on his face. "Yeah," he says finally, with a smile, "but you know we couldn't care less."

"Pfft," she exhales in annoyance. "Sometimes I wish I had a boy I actually wanted to look good for. It's like I'm not even a girl to you guys." Then, for emphasis: "I am a girl, dammit!" And with that, Lily marches out towards compartment 309.

"I know," he says, laughing and shaking his head. As the train rounds a turn a slice of sunlight stripes James's face, playing tricks with his expression.

2.3

Lily barely has time to exclaim, "Em!" before she's smothered by a tangle of sunburned skin and black hair, black cloth. She pulls away after a minute and says with studied nonchalance, "That's funny, I once knew a girl named Emmeline who had _blond_ hair."

"I needed a change, Lily! Anyway, isn't this sexier than before?" She puts on her best come-hither look and tosses her hair mock-seductively.

Remus wolf-whistles and Sirius asks with a smirk in his voice, "So, what do the parents have to say about this sudden–" he pauses, "–aesthetic development, hm?"

"Oh, they say it's just another phase in my mental and moral growth...you know."

Says Peter: "The psychologists strike again."

"Indeed," Emmeline sighs, finally folding her black-jean'd legs beneath herself and sitting back.

"Speaking of Black," Lily says, turning to Sirius, "did you make out all right with your family this summer?"

Sirius rolls his eyes. "Nice segue, Lily."

"Well?"

"Did I make out all right with my family? Ha. Not really, no." Lily raises an inquisitive eyebrow, but she does not interrupt him.

"They disowned me; I moved in with James."

"What!"

James nods in confirmation.

"I–oh, honey," Lily says, her eyes wide and sympathetic.

Sirius rolls his eyes. "Thanks, Mum," he says, trying to sound sarcastic. But Lily can see his shoulders relax a little, and the lines on his forehead smooth, and the shadow of a smile tug at his lips.

The whole compartment is silent for a moment, then: "Hey Lily, on the topic of parents, how was your dad's f–"

James wordlessly cuts Peter off with a sharp shake of the head and flash of the eyes.

"–uck! I got a paper cut!" Peter says by way of recovery. He holds up a bloody thumb to prove the ironic veracity of his lie.

Emmeline muffles a laugh as she performs a quick healing spell and ruffles Peter's hair affectionately. "That's m'boy," she says with a grin.

Another difficult conversation temporarily avoided, the six friends lapse into the easy banter and comfortable pauses of those who have known each other for a long time. They are healthy and warm from late-summer sun; their barking or rumbling or giggling laughs are a little too loud; they understand the laden words amidst lightheartedness; they look each other in the eyes when they speak.

And all the while their hands are like acrobats illustrating their stories and hopes and lies.

2.4

_"You can never go home again."_

_– Thomas Wolfe_


	4. Illume

Part Three  
Illume

3.1

For days it has been raining with the insidious monotony of water torture. Hard and cold and oppressive, the weather has forced all but the most adventurous Hogwarts students inside, where the only reminder of the storm is an unthreatening _tat-tatting_ on the roof.

Instead of writing their Potions essays one such rainy afternoon, Lily and Emmeline are sprawled on their respective beds, eating licorice.

"So Em," says Lily firmly, "who is it?"

"Eh?"

Lily rolls her eyes. "You know–who's the lucky guy?"

"Hey–how?" Emmeline says in disbelief. "I mean, Lily, that's not humanly possible. Did my mum say something to you?"

"Nope," Lily says smugly. "It is written all over your face."

Emmeline's hands fly instantly to her face, as if expecting to find some kind of sign there.

"And," Lily continues, "despite your massive amounts of eyeliner, your eyes are full of it too."

"Sweet Merlin," Emmeline sighs dramatically. "I'm done with. This goes against everything I believe in. It can't have been that obvious...could it?"

"Oh, let me assure you, darling: it was."

"I'm mortified."

"Em, we go through this every time you fall for a guy. Face it: you will never achieve the level of jaded existentialism to which you constantly aspire."

Emmeline looks deflated. "I know," she says hollowly. "I think I would've been cooler about him, except he's different, Lily."

"Ah, here it comes."

"No, really. He's different from those other guys, this one's for real. He's completely genuine and really, really smart and he's so funny, Lily, you'd love him. And he's so handsome, too, he's–"

Lily is smiling at Emmeline, not really listening to her.

"I know what's going through your head, Lily, but you're wrong. I think I'm in love."

Lily smiles at her. "Yes, I think you probably are."

They sit in silence for a minute, reflecting on very different things.

"You going to tell me his name?" asks Lily finally.

"John," Emmeline says with a happy sigh.

"Huh. What house is he in?"

"Oh Lily, he's–didn't I tell you? He's a Muggle."

"What!" Lily exclaims a little too loudly. "I mean, no, you didn't tell me. So...so, you met him over the summer," she prompts.

"Yeah, he's friends with one of my old friends from primary school. We were both at this party–this truly awful party–and so he pulled me aside and asked if I wanted to go get some coffee, and I did, so we did, and he's just–Lily, he is just. He just is."

"I think I know what you mean," Lily smiles.

"Oh, but you don't. You've never been in love," Emmeline says quietly.

Lily frowns. "Yeah," she finally concedes, "you're right."

3.2

Two weeks later, after the students have begun settling into the comfortable rhythm of classes and meals and of each other, three sixth-years sit together under the big tree by the lake. The sun, out at last, is hotly brilliant even as it sinks low in the sky, its orange illuminating the friends' faces and its angle stretching their shadows into dark, grotesque shapes.

They have been sitting in silence, languishing in the last shreds of natural sunlight before they would have to begin studying for the evening, when Lily lets out a sudden, explosive breath. "This is unbelievable!" she cries.

Peter, whose eyes had been closed in contentment and Sirius, who had been picking absentmindedly at the grass, both start at her outburst. They know they do not need to prompt her to continue so, after a quick glance at each other, they fix their eyes on Lily and steel themselves against her impending tirade.

They are not disappointed. "After being apart all summer long, after wishing we were here and trying to recall each other's laughs and counting down the days to September 1st, look at us! We haven't all even been in the same place at the same time since the train ride. _Remus_ is always off handling prefect duties–"

Sirius stifles a chuckle at this, because staunchly though she might deny it, Lily has been harboring resentment against Remus being named prefect and not she since she found out at the end of the summer. He is wise, however, to refrain from mentioning this.

"–and _Em_ is always writing her three-foot-long love letters to John–I mean, you'd think she was taking part in a letter-writing campaign or something!–and _James_ is always practicing Quiddich though the season hasn't even started yet–and _you_ , Sirius, are always off in some broom closet with Joanna. Even Peter and I seem to always be busy studying or tutoring younger students. This is ridiculous! Admit it: is this ridiculous?"

Peter, working hard to keep a grin off his face, makes the obligatory reply: "Yes, it is ridiculous, Lily." A beat. "But then, so are you."

"Ha. Ha. Really, guys: since when do all these other silly obligations take priority over us? Since when do duties and boyfriends and girlfriends and Quiddich and exams dictate our days? Even meals are rushed, what with everyone running off to their various commitments after dinner or scribbling down a homework assignment over breakfast. I hate not seeing everyone, I've missed you all, _I hate this_."

Sirius reaches over and ruffles Lily's hair. "I miss you too, darling. In case this escaped your notice, though, I should point out that at this very minute Peter and yours truly are about three feet away from you."

"I _know_ ," she says, "but it's not the same. I mean, I don't think I've exchanged ten words with James over the past week."

"Ah, so this is about James."

"No, it's not, I want to see you too, but–"

"He's on the pitch now," Peter says. "Go find him. I think he misses you too."

"I don't like him _better_ than you guys, it's just that–"

"Lily, we know," says Sirius. "It's just different. Don't worry about it. Go."

"I–okay," she says, pulling herself to her feet. By now the sky is dark red, but the air is still warm. "I'll see you at dinner?"

"Yeah."

"Let's not rush off today."

"Agreed," says Peter.

And with that, Lily turns from then and makes her way towards the Quiddich pitch, where high in the distance she can see one small silhouette darting through the sky.

3.3

James is training hard for the imminent Quiddich season. He knows he's good–he has always been good–but he doesn't have the body of a natural athlete, and he has to work hard to stay up to par. He lacks the broad shoulders, the ropy muscles, the powerful legs of the team's star players; he is thinner and gawkier, a 16-year-old boy still growing into his body.

But all that teenage awkwardness seems to leave him when he flies; he becomes swift and sure and agile. He becomes heroic.

Since school began, James has been flying on the pitch every morning and every evening, adjusting his reflexes and strategies to his changed body, to the changed light, to the changed season. His muscles have begun to remember the arc of a quaffle and the speed of a broom. Each night his body aches mightily from the strain it has not known for months, but his lungs feel open and he likes the way his skin smarts from exertion. There is nothing like it.

He becomes heroic.

James sees the figure the moment it steps onto the pitch, and though it is too far to discern the distinctive features and too dark to tell that the hair is red, he knows instantly that it is Lily. He knows by the way she moves.

He wants to show off, to brag, to prove what he can do–but then he thinks the better of it and, instead, he flies down to land on firm ground.

"Lily."

She turns, and she thinks he is beautiful then.

He is sweaty and slightly red in the face and and breathing too fast to be considered entirely in shape, but his eyes are gleaming and he looks exultant. He wipes his face on his t-shirt and flexes his fingers, which are cramped from gripping his broom, before he steps towards her.

"Lily?"

Suddenly she feels caught, uncertain. She smells the grass of the pitch, she smells the smoke of the castle's chimneys, she smells James's sweat and skin. He is alive, above, angelic, heroic...how petty seem the thoughts that compelled her, just ten minutes ago, to rush to the pitch.

"Dinner," she says finally. "It's almost dinner time."

3.4

The black night seems to cling to the castle like skin. Only at Hogwarts, only at this unplottable, unchartable part of England, does night fall so heavily and so early. It seems like even the sun and stars lose their way trying to find Hogwarts, sometimes.

The moon never loses its way.

In the common room, the dying fire sculpts Remus's face; shadows pool in the hollows of his cheeks and temples like spilled ink, and the fire's flickering light casts long shadows on the floor.

So it is that Remus sees a dark shape on the carpet and knows of Lily's presence before she speaks, while she still stands stock-still behind the couch where he sits.

He waits for her to speak: he keeps his eyes fast on the pages of his book, though they no longer travel from line to line. He hears her breath quicken. He waits. He listens. His eyes do not move.

Finally: "Can I sit there?"

He turns to her, craning his neck so that one half of his face is entirely in shadow, the other half illuminated, dark gold. "Of course."

She moves slowly around the couch and sits crosslegged, facing him. Remus looks at her and swallows hard: she is sleepy-eyed, heavy-lidded, and her dress is twisted around the middle from being pulled on too quickly and with too little care.

"You just woke up?" His eyes flick to the clock–it is past one o'clock–in inquiry.

"Insomnia," she says, shrugging. She reaches over and takes Remus's book from his hands.

"Oh, are you interested in the gi–" he starts to say, but Lily closes the book and drops it on the floor with a soft _thud_. "Oh."

Suddenly her hand is at his hip, her breath is on his cheek, and the last thing he sees before he closes his eyes is the dark gold light on Lily's face that makes her seem to glow from within.

3.5

By two o'clock everyone is in bed, silent and safe behind drawn bedcurtains. They dream.

Sirius dreams that he is on his broomstick, soaring high over a village whose sky is illuminated with skull after green skull.

Peter dreams that he is trapped in a great glass bell jar, and it is filling with smoke.

Emmeline dreams that it is New Year's Eve and she is drinking too much champagne with her teenage Muggle neighbors; they watch the ball drop on television and Times Square looks like another planet.

Remus dreams that the moon rises full one night and nothing happens.

James dreams that he is a stag, standing in a forest clearing in front of an old, old grave.

Lily dreams that a tall man kisses and kisses her and she's never felt anything like that before. She wakes up feeling hot and a few strands of tangled hair stick to her sweaty neck. When she falls asleep again, she dreams that she is dead.

3.6

_"Nothing happens unless first a dream"_

_– Carl Sandburg_


	5. Castle-Climbing

Part Four  
Castle-Climbing

4.1

During dinner, James motions to get Lily’s attention. “The roof,”� he mouths. “Tonight.”� 

She nods with a little smile; it is their place, the only spot on the Hogwarts grounds where one can sit for hours without the slightest threat of interruption. Even the three other Marauders don’t know of its existence–Lily cast it with an advanced charm to make it unchartable when the boys were close to finishing their map. It is just for her and James.

Later that evening, Lily winds a complex path of swinging staircases and crisscrossing corridors until she reaches an obscure, unlit hall comprised of empty classrooms and dust-ridden portraits. In an old Potions room filled with discarded, evil-smelling beakers and phials, she pulls a chair scrapingly across the floor. Standing on it, amidst the curls of stirred-up dust lit yellow by the the last rays of sunlight through the window, Lily looks like a statue engulfed by flame. 

But then she reaches up and unclasps the sticky latch on the window so that it swings outwards with a creak. She climbs out through the window, steps onto the ledge, and clambers up the sloping stone roof until she sits on the round, flat area at the very top.

She is not afraid of heights. She loves the spicy, bitter smell of the Forbidden Forest mingling with smoke from the castle’s many chimneys, and she loves how, from here, she can look horizon to horizon and see the curve of the earth. She can see students interacting far below–rough-housing, she guesses, or playing, or kissing, or yelling–but lovers look like study groups, and Slytherins like Hufflepuffs, from where she sits. And she cannot hear a sound except the wind.

And some birds fly lower than her vantage point.

_I am a bird now_ , she thinks.

James scrambles onto the roof a few minutes later. “You look like you could fly off to London this minute,”� he says.

“Yeah.”�

“Stifled?”�

“Just itching to do something.”�

“Me too,”� he says.

Lily knows that James has called her up here for a reason, but she does not prod him; she keeps her eyes trained on the setting sun.

“So,”� James says finally, “you and Remus.”�

“Yes,”� she says.

“He told me yesterday.”�

She looks at him, hard, for a moment. “You’re not okay with this?”�

“Hm? No Lily, it’s fine.”�

“Then why do you look so…?”�

“Were you even planning on telling me?”�

“What?”�

“Or was this going to be some covert thing behind my back?”�

“James.”�

“I don’t even–Lily, I don’t even care that you’re dating him. I mean, I _care_ –of course I care–but I don’t have a problem with it.”�

“James…”�

“I mean, Merlin Lily, I love both you and Remus, you know that. So why didn’t you tell me? You couldn’t have possibly thought I’d be jealous... I mean, not that you’re not great enough to provoke jealousy, because you are, but you know what I mean. Right? I think you–”�

“James!”�

“What?”� he says, his tirade finally interrupted.

“Slow down. Jealousy never entered the equation. Neither did the idea of some secret affair. Merlin. Get a grip, James.”� She looks at him piercingly.

“Sorry.”� He has the good grace to look a little sheepish, and he rubs the back of his neck.

“It’s fine. I didn’t tell you because I was figuring things out myself. I kissed Remus–well, I was sleepy and he looked so sexy and…my hormones kind of took over.”�

“Ha. You and your hormones.”�

“Sod off,”� she says, biting the corner of her mouth to keep from smiling.

“Anyway,”� he prompts.

“Anyway. It was…good. It was really good, actually. But afterwards I wasn’t sure where I wanted it to go; I mean, contrary to _popular belief_ –”� she elbows James, “–there is a point at which my hormones and sleep-induced foolishness go off duty and my brain takes over.”�

He grins. “Nah, never.”�

Ignoring him: “And I was even less sure where _Remus_ wanted it to go. So I didn’t want to talk to you until I knew whether it was going to be, ‘Ha ha, I kissed Remus impulsively, I know you’ll never let me live this down’ or, ‘Remus and I are going to try something–try dating–and I’ll be kissing him in the future, too.’ Oh Merlin, I’m bad at this. But do you know what I mean?”�

“Yes.”� A beat. “So, then…which is it?”�

“Oh,”� she says with a smile in her voice. “The latter. We talked about it this afternoon. I _will_ be kissing Remus in the future.”�

“The hormones won then, eh?”� James says, nudging Lily.

“Guess so,”� she says, beaming madly. “I guess so.”�

4.2

The next morning, at breakfast, an unfamiliar owl swoops down towards the Gryffindor table and drops a scrap of paper on Lily’s plate.

_Be at the Hog’s Head this Friday at nine o’clock. Don’t tell your mum or she’ll go one-two-three-catastrophe on you.  
– Your father_

Her brow furrows and she reads it again, frowning. “Look at this,”� she says, laying the note on the table so that Emmeline and the boys, who are sitting by her, can read its message.

“Lily,”� Sirius begins carefully, “I hate to state the obvious but… your father died. This summer. You and James saw him interred. Is there really any question of what this letter is?”�

Peter nods vehemently. “Some jackass playing a prank. Or worse.”�

“And a stupid jackass at that,”� adds Emmeline. “He clearly didn’t even bother doing the research to find that your father is dead and a Muggle. Er, he _was_ a Muggle.”�

Lily chuckles without much mirth. “Yeah. And the Hog’s Head wasn’t exactly my dad’s kind of venue.”�

She looks pointedly towards James, asking him something wordlessly, but he remains conspicuously silent and his eyes betray nothing.

“That’s it then, right?”� says Remus. “Just ignore it, forget about it. Even if it _were_ your father, I wouldn’t want you hanging out at the Hog’s Head. That place is bloody foul.”�

“Already playing the part of the protective boyfriend, eh?”� says Sirius, smirking for a moment before receiving a swift kick to the shin under the table, at which he visibly winces.

“Ha. Ha,”� says Remus before launching into a heated debate with Emmeline about the relative merits and shortcomings of the Hog’s Head versus the Three Broomsticks, his previous question lost in the crossfire.

It was pretty rhetorical, anyway.

Or perhaps not.

Out by the lake, hours later, James pulls Lily aside and speaks in a low voice. “You’re not going, are you?”�

“I–”�

“Oh Merlin, Lily. Don’t be thick. Your father is six feet below hard-packed earth right now; he’s most definitely not knocking back firewhiskey shots at some seedy wizard bar waiting for you to reply to his owl.”�

“It’s–not that, James,”� she says carefully.

“…It’s not?”�

“It’s just that–well–I don’t know how to say this, but–you know that stupid part of the note? The _one-two-three-catastrophe_ part? That’s…a saying my mum uses. I’ve never heard anyone say it but her.”�

“Christ, Lily.”�

“Maybe my dad isn’t dead! Maybe he faked his death and really he’s a wizard and now he wants to tell me he loved me all along!”�

“You’re delusional. We saw his dead body. You hate him, remember?”�

“Maybe’s he’s a ghost! Maybe he’s an undercover Auror!”� Lily cries, quite hysterical.

“Lily!”� James says, finally raising his voice. He puts his hands on her upper arms and holds her more firmly than comfort allows, bringing her back to her senses.

“Maybe he’s…maybe he’s…”� she whispers less frantically than before, a tear running from the corner of her eye.

James’s voice softens. “Lily, you need to let him go.”� He looks her in the eyes and, after a moment, she shakes her head.

“It’s too hard.”�

“Life is hard, Lily, and dammit, I know that death is harder. But you need to try! You can’t let that bastard keep hurting you even now that he’s gone. You need to try.”� His grip on her arms loosens, but he does not let her go.

4.3

That evening is a full moon–the first since summer.

Madame Pomfrey ushers Remus to the Shrieking Shack in late afternoon, a process involving many furtive glances and hasty detours to avoid other students. With a kindly creasing of the brow, Pomfrey bids Remus goodnight and then, necessarily, casts the Shrieking Shack’s doors with every locking charm and hex in existence. 

Remus sits awkwardly on one of the few salvageable chairs in the place, forced to stare for hours at the fact of his savagery–as evinced by the broken glass and debris that litter the floors, by the smears of blood that graffiti the walls. He watches a rectangle of sun on the ceiling as it makes its painfully slow journey while the sun sets.

Finally it fades and dread twists Remus’s stomach: it is night, it is night, it is a full moon. It is night.

Three animals arrive. They are never sure whether Remus will have transformed or not by the time they come, so they always emerge from the Whomping Willow’s tunnel in their animagi forms, grave and alert and quick-limbed.

A shrewd, agile rat.

A snarling black dog.

A towering stag.

It is night, and the moon rises large and luminous, lovely. Bone pierces muscle as Remus’s body struggles to accommodate its strange affliction, but soon he writhes in rage, not pain. The rat, the dog, and the stag wrestle with the werewolf in a fierce, orgasmic battle that would destroy most men or else drive them mad. In four weeks, though, these four will return to fight the same battle again, no ground gained. 

There is no strategy and there is no white flag. Each man is his own mercenary, his own commander, his own weapon. And in this battle, or war, or hellish schoolyard game–there are no victors.

At the first rays of pre-dawn Remus wakes up curled in a fetal position on the cold floor, sore and bloody. And alone. Beside him lie the splintered pieces of a chair. 

4.4

The boys collapse into their beds only to be wrenched awake an hour later by Remus’s alarm clock. Sirius staggers out of bed to switch it off before making his way to the bathroom, where he lets the steaming water wake up his aching, tired muscles.

That morning at breakfast, a dark-haired girl makes her way over from the Ravenclaw table to squeeze onto a Gryffindor bench next to Sirius. She kisses the hollow of his cheek and he exhales softly, though he hadn’t realized he’d been holding his breath.

“Jo,”� he says.

“Mhm. Long night? You look awful.”�

He smiles weakly. “Thanks, you really know how to lift a man’s spirits.”�

“Whoops–what I meant to say was, despite your unparalleled beauty and general manliness, um, _you look awful_.”�

“I know. Couldn’t sleep.”�

Joanna takes one of his hands in hers and inspects it closely. “Sirius…”� she says dangerously.

He starts to give her a winning smile but her narrowed eyes tell him that this is not the time.

“Sirius, do you have blood under your nails?”�

Momentarily struck dumb, he just stares at her blankly for a moment. “I uh, no, no, it’s just that–”� he tries.

Jo flinches away from his touch as though branded. “ _Don’t_ , Sirius. Don’t even consider coming near me until you decide to explain this.”�

“No, it’s not what–”�

“Blood. You asshole,”� Jo mutters angrily. “There is a difference between playing tricks and playing God.”�

“I don’t–”�

“And you just crossed it. Finally living up to your famous surname, eh?”�

Jo’s words hit Sirius like a punch in the stomach. Without even looking at Sirius’s face–she doesn’t need to look, for she realizes the second the words leave her lips what a terrible mistake they are–she throws one more disgusted glance at the blood crusted under his fingernails before walking out of the Great Hall.

Sirius does not follow her.

4.5

Remus is in the Infirmary trying to ignore the searing pain in his chest as Madame Pomfrey’s Skelegro repairs his ribcage. He stares out the window at the first snow of the year, thinking about how it will look settling onto red hair…

Lily steps in quietly and makes her way to the far side of the Infirmary, to the bed by the window. This is always Remus’s bed, she knows; it is the only one curtained off from prying eyes.

Remus turns to her with a weak smile and she sits on the bed–only to spring up again when she sees him wince involuntarily at the mattress’s movement. Instead, she pulls up a nearby chair and takes his hand.

“Remus,”� she says softly, “how was the transformation this time?”�

“Better than usual,”� he says, which is his answer every time she asks. She squeezes his hand. 

“I’m so sorry you have to do it alone,”� she says. “I wish I could help. I wish I could be there…”�

Remus turns his head away from her, because he doesn’t trust his eyes not to betray him. “I’m glad you don’t see me when I’m like that,”� he says gruffly.

She hesitates, and almost doesn’t say what comes next. “Me too.”�

4.6

Maybe it is Lily’s tension at Remus’s state, or maybe it is the fact that James is dead tired and sore in every bone of his body, or maybe it is the friction in the air still lingering after Sirius and Jo’s fight, or maybe it is the deaths that litter the front page of the _Daily Prophet_ –but Lily and James are arguing meanly, as they are wont to do.

“Let me put it this way, James,”� Lily says acidly. “I will be at the Hog’s Head this Friday at nine. You can keep an eye on me if you must, but _I will be at the Hog’s Head this Friday at nine_ regardless of whether you’re with me under that invisibility cloak of yours or not.”�

“Are you trying to give me an aneurysm?”�

“I’m _trying_ to let you know my decision.”�

“Fuck, Lily–your father is dead!”�

“He wants to talk to me and I want to talk to him. I’m not a child and I don’t need _you_ , of all people, to chaperone me.”�

“Oh, I forgot, _Remus_ will be taking care of you now!”�

“That is not what I meant!”�

“I can read you like a book, Lily! If you go, you’re just acting like a foolish little girl. I know you’re smarter than that.”�

“Guess there’s no point in you wasting your time with _this_ fool, then. Leave me alone, James.”�

James fixes Lily with a hard look before stalking off towards the lake. Lily stands still as a statue, white snowflakes falling in her red hair.

4.7

It is night again. Sitting on the cold stone roof, Lily closes her eyes and inhales the smell of evergreens and smoke, spicy and bitter and clean. All of a sudden she realizes why it has always seemed so familiar: it is James’s smell.

4.8

_“There is thunder in our hearts.”�  
– Kate Bush, “Running Up that Hill”�_

[ **Author’s note** : The line “I am a bird now”� is inspired by the Antony & the Johnsons album of the same name. Listen to it sometime.]


End file.
